The Bottom of the Jar

by Abdellatif Laabi

  Having been awake for a good long while, Namouss was growing impatient. He was hungry and wanted Ghita to get up and look after him. Satan began to whisper naughty ideas into his ears. He discarded a few of them, but his hunger got the better of him in the end. It followed that he couldn’t expect to have warm milk with his breakfast. He would therefore have to make do with the leftovers from the previous evening’s meal. Rummaging in the cubbyhole that served as a kitchen, he managed to lay his hands on a partially eaten quarter-loaf of bread and a small piece of meat coated in congealed fat. He had just begun to devour his meager snack when he heard the squeaking of mice coming from behind a row of jars. Panicking, he jerked back and bumped into a rack containing of number of pots and saucepans. With a crash, the kitchen utensils came tumbling down, scattering as far as the courtyard in a deafening racket. And the mice, who were even more scared than Namouss, leaped out of their hiding place and, after racing around the courtyard in mad circles, headed straight for his parents’ bedroom.

  Soon enough, the house is turned on its head. Ghita’s terrified shrieks. Driss comes out in his pajamas still wearing his nightcap. Noisily throwing open the bathroom door, he grabs hold of a club and, giving Namouss a dirty look, enters the field of battle. Woken from their slumber, Namouss’s brothers and sisters rush into the courtyard, each brandishing a weapon they’d brought out just in case: a slipper, a sandal, a palm broom. The atmosphere is charged. Namouss knows he will not be able to get off scot-free. Unless. He starts thinking, fast. After all, no one could be sure that he had been the one to knock over the pots and pans. Why couldn’t it have been the mice? This version of the events could hold water. In any case, it would be best to disappear for the moment and wait for the breaking of the fast to show his face again. By that time, there’s a good chance the whole affair will have been forgotten.

  HE ROAMED THE streets like a lost soul. Empty of people, the Medina was unrecognizable. The few passersby he crossed paths with looked sullen. Hardly any shops were open and the craftsmen inside worked at a leisurely pace. Only a handful of grocers attracted a few customers: some young maids, whom one recognized because of their humble attire and, above all, their faded, ill-fitting head scarves, which made them look like elderly spinsters. There they were, sniffling, their eyes heavy with sleep, waiting for the grocer to deign to serve them.

  It was then that Namouss realized the full extent of the calamity that he’d brought upon himself. Unless a miracle happened, he would have nothing to eat for the whole day, and since he couldn’t very well go home before sundown, what could he do to fill the interminable hours that lay ahead of him?

  He began roaming the streets aimlessly again. After a while, the empty streets made him feel as if he were in a different town altogether. Devoid of crowds, the souks seemed larger. One could take his time, look around, lift one’s gaze to the sky, watch the flight path of a stork, and there, where some reeds had been braided into a sheltering roof, observe clusters of grapes hanging heavy as wax from their vines, or listen to the chirping of birds that had made their nest in that cool spot.

  Namouss continued on his way, prompted by a sudden desire to revisit all his favorite haunts, taking advantage of the exceptional tranquillity. His steps led him to the Joutiya market, where on normal days the crowds were usually thickest. Starting early in the morning, people gathered around the stalls run by butchers, fishmongers, vegetable sellers, and in the middle of the square, surrounded the traders selling olives, snails, and salt, who, lacking proper shops or stalls, sold their wares out of large, wide baskets on the ground. The cheap eateries serving harira were never empty. Namouss would sometimes slip inside the one in Ba Allal, taking care not to be spotted by someone who might be tempted to report him to his mother. This was because Ghita thought that dining out on what she called “street food” was beneath one. It was only suitable for beggars, those without families, and bachelors. When he flouted this rule, Namouss would eat his soup so quickly that he’d scald his tongue and then leave the eatery, skulking away like a thief in the night.

  Today, however, there was no sign of soup anywhere, not even its aroma. Damn! The deserted square instead smelled of dung and piss. Some donkeys were there, slumped, their eyes half shut, nonchalantly shooing away some extremely persistent flies with their tails. Looking at them, one would think they too were fasting. Namouss would have to wait until noon for the square to spring to life a little. But he was wrong to think that. Because it was Ramadan, this would happen only much later, close to nightfall. Joutiya Square would then transform, as if by a miracle. There would no longer be any buying or selling. Rope dancers and storytellers would divide the square between them and hold the high ground until the first flicker of dawn, vying to outdo each other with their juggling skills and eloquence. The crowds around them would be thick, flabbergasted, and friendly. There were also pickpockets lurking about. Hymns praising the Prophet would fill the air when the collection plate was passed around.

  Of all those shows, Namouss’s absolute favorite was the one performed by a character whose reputation extended far and wide, a storyteller who went by the name of Harrba. Physically, he was not particularly striking: a small head set on a scrawny neck, bleary-eyed, and half his scalp eaten away by ringworm. Fact remains that this puny-looking man was a great showman, a peerless narrator who, thanks to his varied repertoire, knew how to keep his audience in suspense. Harrba would sometimes improvise sketches inspired by daily life that made light of his fellow worshippers; other times he told variations of widely known stories, which had never been heard before. A little tambourine perched on his shoulder, and he used it to punctuate his story or to break into drum solos, which he excelled at.

  Namouss would go to hear him on his own or with a group of friends. He would lose himself in the flow of his voice, a voice that could mimic those of men and women, the rich and the poor, city slickers and country bumpkins, masters and servants, the hard of hearing and stammerers, corrupt qadis and phony imams, a beggar feigning blindness, a merchant cheating his customers, and a whole other plethora of crooks and fakes. Shifting register, Harrba would allow Namouss to travel back in time and marvel at the miracles performed by ancient saints and prophets, to suffer as they suffered, be swept away by the exploits of heroes waging a relentless struggle against the forces of evil, to watch dumbstruck as Harrba brought a princess’s charms to life: a perfectly placed beauty mark, hair that reached down to the ankles, tits like grenades, and a waist so slender a single hand could clasp it.

  Harrba would jump and twirl and about. He would mimic the sound of waves, the wind, thunder, rain, animal calls, evoking sounds as varied as explosive farts to the silent ones weasels make, and would stop – all of a sudden and without warning – to allow the audience to give credit where credit was due.

  “Would you like me to carry on?”

  “Yes!” they would yell in unison.

  “Very well then,” he would say, “the show isn’t free. Dig deep into your pockets and let me hear those coins.”

  The show would last up until it was time for the s’hour, the last meal before resuming the fast. Neighboring streets would resound with the songs of the “door knockers,” those messengers of dawn making the rounds from house to house. Using a hammer made out of leather, they would give the doors a sharp blow to let the people inside know it was time to eat. The crowds would then disperse in the blink of an eye. The performers would gather their belongings and follow suit.

  NAMOUSS WAS COUNTING on finding Harrba again that night. From where he stood, his fate remained uncertain, so he continued wandering in the hopes that it might drive those unpleasant thoughts away. He started thinking about Driss, and this drew him like a magnet to the souk where the saddlers’ guild was located.

  The Sekkatine souk! It felt as if this place was his father’s real home, while their abode in the Spring of Horses indisputably fell under his mother’s jurisdiction. The idea of splitting his life betwe
en two homes troubled him. Which one drew him in and comforted him more? One the one hand, Ghita ran the family nest in an orderly and reassuring way; on the other, while his father’s place also had its constraints, it was vitally linked to the city, teeming with life and receptive to echoes from the outside world: the countryside, other cities, the world beyond. And Driss, a respected craftsman, was at the center of all that.

  The Sekkatine souk was deserted and all the shops were locked up. Only the watchman was there, lying half asleep on a sack of jute in front of the entrance. Though the watchman eyed Namouss suspiciously at first, he realized he was Maâllem Driss’s son and so asked after him.

  “Yak labass? How is your father?”

  “Labass, labass,” Namouss replied, albeit begrudgingly, feeling as though he was being spied on. Namouss had wanted the place all to himself on this most unusual of visits, whose purposes were unknown even to himself.

  Turning his back to the watchman, he pushed on through the souk. The row of shuttered shops made him uneasy. Usually he could walk through the market blindfolded and know which shop belonged to whom: his uncle Si Mohammed; the stirrup-maker Meslouhi; the craftsmen Berdaï, Chardane, Amine Rabiî; the shopkeeper Tahiri brothers: Sid Louadi and Sidi Hafid; the Sebtis: Mohammed Lehsiki and his son Haji Mohammed the Younger, a.k.a. the “Screw”; the guild master Haji Abderrahmane Sekkat; etc. His father’s shop was situated right in the middle of the market, just in front of Doukkali’s, the barber-circumciser. Namouss could fill a whole gallery with the portraits of these men. There were kind and not-so-kind men among them, loudmouths and diffident ones, greedy ones and those happy just to make a living, jokers and suckers, those green with envy and those blessed by luck, bashful and cheeky ones, slow and speedy ones, drudges and perfectionists. There was never a dull moment when the Sekkatine was in full swing.

  Very early in the morning, it opens. Each shop has an elevated door, with one shutter on the top and one at the bottom. After the lower one is unlocked with a large key, the top shutter is pushed up and fixed in place with the help of a thick wooden stick. A rope hanging from the ceiling allows one to hoist oneself into the shop like an acrobat. The workbench is set at chest level. Only the barber has succumbed to the sirens of modernity. His shop doors open sideways and – the epitome of luxury – are accessed via a series of steps.

  That was where Namouss sat to catch his breath and once more lose himself to daydreaming. A smile began to form on his lips. He remembered the mornings when business was slow in the souk – and especially the pleasantries exchanged with the craftsmen who turned up late to work, rosy-cheeked and still wrapped in a towel. That they had just come from the hammam did not escape their co-workers. Once the man in question had opened his shop and laid his towel on the stick that held up the canopy, the jokes were rattled out in quick succession.

  “Aha! Someone’s sure taken his time over his major ablutions!”

  “I hope the water was warm.”

  “Did the masseur look after you well then?”

  “La-di-da, maâllem.”

  “He must have worn out the lady of the house this morning. How will she get through all the day’s chores now?”

  “And the midday meal will surely be ample. These things usually awaken the appetite.”

  “May God give us just a bit of your zeal.”

  “You must look after your health, maâllem.”

  “We should keep an eye out for a second wife for him, just in case the first one throws in the towel.”

  The fellow would take the teasing in stride and with good humor, seeming to accept it as an homage to his virility. He knew that the joke would be on someone else the following day. That was how the working day started off in high spirits.

  Namouss didn’t understand any of this secret language when he first started frequenting the souk. He didn’t get why paying a visit to the hammam and having a passion for cleanliness should be so embarrassing. He didn’t know the difference between major and minor ablutions,6 that is until Si Daoudi, the Arabic teacher, shed some light on the matter. The lesson broached the subject of prayers and the ritual purification they required. Minor ablutions would suffice in this case, unless the worshipper in question invalidated them by urinating or breaking wind immediately preceding the hour of prayer. Major ablutions were only necessary in cases of “extreme filthiness.” The dutiful Muslim would then have to go to the hammam to cleanse himself. The teacher had limited himself to these cryptic stock phrases, but when confronted by a bold student’s insistence that he elaborate, he explained further that this “filthiness” occurred when a man got together with a woman.

  “One shouldn’t be ashamed when it comes to religious matters. You bunch of philistines should keep in mind that without this sort of lawful intercourse, none of you would have come into this world.”

  Ever since, while Namouss didn’t know all the ins and outs of these lewd innuendos, he at least could gather what they were about, and above all dreaded the day when it would be Driss’s turn to become the butt of everyone’s jokes.

  Namouss would only go to the souk in the morning on rare occasions. That would only happen if Ghita sent him on an errand, or when he finally consented – and only after putting up a struggle – to having his hair cut, leaving his precious locks behind in Doukkali’s shop. Namouss had a bone to pick with Doukkali. The memory of his circumcision was still fresh in his mind. Not that he resented the operation. He had, after all, longed to be like all the other children. In the months leading up to the operation, the friends of his who had already been through the procedure began teasing him about the end of his willy that hung down a bit too far. What he rebuked Doukkali for was his underhanded ways. When Namouss had finally decided to put a brave face to the operation, the barber had resorted to subterfuge.

  “Look at the little green bird chirping away up there!” he’d said.

  As soon as Namouss had lifted his gaze to look for the bird with the rare color, Doukkali swooped down with his scissors.

  Namouss also resented him for more mundane reasons. Namouss almost had a heart attack each time Doukkali cut his hair. Using stubborn tufts of hair as an excuse, he wouldn’t stop shearing until Namouss was almost bald. Namouss didn’t dare utter an objection, and the moment he got out of there, he was mortified to catch sight of himself, having been shorn like a sheep. He also couldn’t stand the noxious smell emanating from the barber’s hands, the man clearly never washed his hands after going to the bathroom. It was tough going. Namouss had to hold his breath to the point of near suffocation. It was a real relief when the barber sprinkled talcum powder on his head and around his ears, before giving him a once-over with a soft brush and standing back to admire his handiwork.

  “Look at you, you look just like a newlywed!”

  But bad memories of the Sekkatine were few and far between. The afternoons, for example, were splendid. Namouss used to love hoisting himself into his father’s shop just before rush hour and resting his elbows on the workbench to watch him work. From these moments, Namouss’s olfactory memory stored a variety of smells: goatskin, calfskin, hemp yarn, wax, natural or colored wool, bits and stirrup irons, wood, some flour-based adhesive, and of course snuff, which Driss, like the majority of people in the Sekkatine, consumed vast quantities of. His father’s smell was a subtle mix of all these odors. What fascinated him most, however, were Driss’s hands, which were large for a man his size and so agile that they seemed to act independently of his body. He wore leather thimbles on his thumb and middle finger, making them appear unusually long in comparison to the others. The callused hand he slammed down on the saddle to reinforce the seams was as strong as a hammer. Namouss admired these displays of Driss’s energy and ingenuity. He knew those hands were blessed, that they both fed and protected him.

  When customers showed up, Namouss took a similar pleasure in following the minutiae of negotiations. Driss would begin by displaying the different types of saddles and explaini
ng their specific uses. If the customer was a fantasia rider, Driss would show him the appropriate ceremonial saddle. The customer would then choose between the Fez style, with gold embroidery, or the Tlemcen style, with silver embroidery. If the saddle was meant for everyday use, then standard thread would suffice. The saddle would subsequently be fitted with a tarchih, composed of several layers of wool carpets sewn together, which would be placed directly on top of the horse’s back, before being equipped with a harness, a pommel, a cantle, a crupper, a throatlatch, and reins. They finally came to the most delicate part of the negotiations: money. The customer would then transform into a humble beggar, swearing up and down that the harvest had been bad that year and that he was on the brink of utter ruin. He beseeched Driss to take pity on his children and help him through this difficult patch.

  “Let me kiss your hands, maâllem, don’t be so hard on me.”

  This farce didn’t fool Driss, who’d seen some performances in his time. But the man’s speech seemed to have moved him, and he proposed, “All right, do you know what we’re going to do? We’ll leave the haggling to one side and concentrate on the profit margin. The base cost of what it is. Now what are you going to give me for my troubles?”

  “A thousand, maâllem.”

  “May Satan be cursed, my good man. Do you know how much work this is going to take?”

  “Open your hand, maâllem, this is what I will give you: fifteen hundred and not a penny more. Were I to add even a penny more, my wife would throw me out.”

  “Leave your wife out of this, my good man. Give me your money and take your saddle. Thanks be to God, oh He who looks after our needs and deals us our lot in life.”

  On that note, Driss held out his hand and the customer pulled out a wad of bills and counted them: “One for God. Two” – and here he didn’t add a qualifier – “Three . . .”